Julian relished being the centre of attention; he swanned about quaffing on a flute of bubbly champagne, throwing his hands in the air as Capt Baker debriefed him of Alistair's sticky situation. Alistair petted Balderick and they shared some supper. Capt Baker sipped from a bottle of ginger beer, when unprompted, Julian snorted.

"O Captain, my Captain, is it me or are you carrying an extra couple of pounds?" Julian asked flippantly.

"Howse a'boot you cut that out?" Capt Baker sniped, his Canadian fleck betraying his ire. He had removed his trench coat and disarmed himself; underneath the great coat was an elaborate mechanised girdle strapped to his back whist spring-loaded Mauser C96 handguns ran up each of his arms. An ammunition clip rack was saddled across his shoulders and after unclasping the contraption, he tugged it off. He now placed his hands on his hips and admired his physique; his tight white T-shirt hid a well-toned chest and abdomen.

"No extra weight here sweetheart," Capt Baker noted.

"Be still my heart," Julian mockingly swooned.

"All Canadian beefcake, my friend," Capt Baker replied. "And if you know what's good for you, don't mention my weight again."

"Touchy," Julian teased.

Capt Baker looked around the room, then listened intently, chugged his ginger beer and posed a question.

"Where's your puppy?" Capt Baker asked obliquely and Julian replenished his tipple.

"My Chelsea girl? Oh she's down in her kennel. She has been quite the bitch today," Julian answered tipping the empty champagne bottle into the ice bucket. "Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

Retiring to a spacious, bohemian living room, Alistair looked over Julian's veritable treasure trove of belongings. Dim, rosy red lamps set the tone, whilst a number of scented candles burnt on a variety of candelabras around the room. Furniture was handcrafted wood with plush upholstery, and accessorised with a mountain of pillows. There were scatter rugs aplenty and at jaunty angles across the walls were a number of framed posters. One was quite recognisable: a pastel-chic image of a handsome gent with a header brazenly advertising The Corey Kershaw Experience, except the poster boy's eyes had been gouged out and the face scribbled over with purple Posca Pen. Next to Corey was another framed photograph of a moustachioed man, wearing a yellow jacket and standing alone on a long stage; he was lit in a spotlight and before him appeared to be an adoring congregation.

To the side, a long, deep display case was filled with porcelain dolls, antiques and knick-knacks and keepsakes from around the globe. As Alistair wandered, checking everything out, attached to the wall in a vacuum-sealed casing was a worn Union Jack flag. The red, white and blue colour was faded, the material frayed and torn and abused, with a number of unsightly brownish stains.

"That flag once flew on the Tower of London," Julian noted, uncorking another bottle of champagne; Alistair had never seen the Union Jack previously. "The blood, sweat and tears of many Loyalists are part of that fabric. We should never forget!"

Before the framed flag, was an odd machine: glowing yellow and red; the word Wurlitzer  was emblazoned across the unit in polished silver. Investigating, the queer machine, Alistair dabbed his finger over a row of chunky buttons, individualised with letters and numbers; inside, reflective discs sparkled as they revolved around a central canister. He tried to view the inner workings; instead, he accidentally pushed random buttons and he watched as a mechanical arm removed one of the reflective discs and a slim unit swallowed it up.

The Wurlitzer detonated; a holo-projection rendering of a rock band appeared and Alistair jumped out his skin as the longhaired vocalist thrust forward hurling the lyrics. The rhythmic maelstrom was loud, fast and immediate and the boy was captivated. Bum-bum-ba-daddum... Bum-bum-ba-daddum...

"We come from the land of the ice and snow..." the vocalist sang as the drums and bass pounded in Alistair's ears. Capt Baker shook his head, mumbling something about 'not getting him started', however Julian gave Alistair the thumbs up.

"Sparkling selection Alistair," Julian bellowed over the music. Julian then began to thrash his head back and forth, his long black hair flinging about in time with the rocking music. Delilah scrunched up her face in displeasure as she re-entered the room having attended to her flesh wound. Julian momentarily stopped banging his head, moved next to Alistair by the machine and tapped the display glass with his finger.

"It's called a jukebox!" Julian yelled out. "J-u-k-e-b-o-x."

The song rocketed to its conclusion and the mechanical arm removed the reflective disc and flipped it back to the rack along with the countless others.

"Who was that?" Alistair gasped in awe.

"Oh just some little rock band called Led Zeppelin. Why? You like?"

"Wow," Alistair grinned. "Double wow!"

"So the urchin does have class," Julian concluded as he toasted the boy. "Carry on and dance the way you feel!"

"What else have you got in this jukebox of yours?" Alistair enquired with a heightened appetite for instruction on the nuances of British pop and rock music.

"My, my. What haven't I got?" Julian boasted; scanning through the revolving play list, the host mulled over a number of judicious selections.

"The Clash, The Rolling Stones, The Feeling, The Beatles, The Pet Shop Boys, The La's, The Editors, The Victims, The Kinks, The Jam, The Cure, The Wombats, The Pink Guns, The The, The What's..."

"The who?"

"Of course...them too!"

Julian never stopped for breath.

"I've got A-sides, B-sides, LPs, EPs, Flexis, fan club mail-aways, Christmas give-aways. Brit-Pop, synth-pop, Pop-rock, punk rock, glam rock, prog rock, psychedelic rock, heavy metal, shoe-gaze and rock 'n' roll and all the brill British bombast that goes in between. Just like a box of chocolates, everything is just so alluring."

Julian gasped after that mouthful then came over very serious.

"The only thing I don't have is Corey Kershaw – pah!"

"Pop schlopp," Alistair said sourly. "So X-Factory!"

"Pop schlopp indeed!" Julian nodded. "I must remember to tell Corey that next time I see him. Pop schlopp...good one!"

"You know Corey Kershaw?"

"The Haircut? Yes, I know him. Now, back to the real talent."

Chewing on a fingernail, Julian bubbled with temptation. "I have to tell you, the jukebox is nuanced to my personal taste and I've even re-wired the unit to feed each channel through separate amps. All the wiring is the purest platinum," Julian boasted haughtily. "So whatever we listen to will be as if we were in the recording studio with the band when they laid down the track."

"Cool," Alistair said enthusiastically.

"I'm such a NeuNME snob, so shoot me!" Julian answered Alistair's odd look of confusion or perhaps, indifference. Of course none of Julian's prattle meant anything to Alistair – he didn't know what vinyl, CDs, albums or singles were - but Julian continued on regardless.

"I'll have you know I even have a copy of Idiot Stare's debut album," he trumpeted. "On compact disc no less. Rare as hen's teeth, they are. My copy is mint!"

"Ok, let's listen to that," Alistair smiled.

"Listen to it?!" Julian cringed. "Definitely not!!! Idiot Stare was the 'next big thing' just as our country decided they needed a little fracas to divert the peoples' attention. These days, you need permission to listen to proper music. Who are they kidding?! Stick with me and you'll never need their permission to listen to the classics!"

"May we listen to something then?" Alistair enquired. "Anything?"

"My dear, let me start you on your journey of moral corruption and musical awakening" Julian squealed, pulling Alistair in for a hug with his free arm, whilst making sure he didn't spill his champagne with the other. "Shall we start from the top? Shall we begin with the greatest rock band of all time and work our way down my ever changing list of Top 10 best ever British rock bands?"

"Sure. Who is number 1?" Alistair asked innocently.

"Who is number 1?" Julian screeched; again he waved his hand in front his face affected by a touch of imaginary vapours. "My dear boy, the Number 1 band of ALL time is the same band that's always the Number 1 of ALL TIME. Queen!!! Except on Tuesday afternoons when Gary Numan tickles my fancy and if I've drunk enough flirtinis, Depeche Mode might take the mantle. But no...Queen, always and forever!"

"Queenit is," Alistair agreed. Julian whisked his long finger – polished with black nail varnish – over the song selector and a disc slid in to the player and Julian stepped back, positively glowing.

"Now this is one of my favourite songs that I know you will absolutely love," he effused, slurping the last of the champagne from the flute. Pointing a straight finger at Delilah, who sat politely bemused, he smiled. "This one's for you darling."

Alistair sat down on the rug and Julian clinked the ring on his finger against his champagne flute, and playfully prodded Capt Baker who looked like he was falling asleep on the settee. The pop-tastic song Delilahsoon filled the room and Alistair quickly decided he loved the song and that one day he would get one of Julian's magical jukeboxes for himself.

**********************

It was quite late; 3am to be precise, and Alistair's tympanic membranes were bruised. A sleepy Capt Baker led Alistair and Delilah down the stairs to a lower level corridor to find a spare bedroom. Alistair noticed they were all dorm rooms, some filled to overflowing with sacks, barrels, crates and caches. He'd done David Bowie and Iron Maiden and Marc Bolan and Anna Key and Coldplay and the Eurthymics, going the distance before Julian succumbed to the bubbly and finished up snoring on the settee.

Yawning, Alistair had taken his first tentative lessons in Julian's school of rock: the contemptible act of censorship; the importance of being Morrisey; how critics of Jesus Jones should have been vivisected; the great rivalries – The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, Oasis and Blur, #ouch and Xenon; the Zeitgeist moments of Durandemonium, Antmania, Girlpower and T-Rextasy; the overt British-ness of Neil Tennant; the social relevance of Ska, Punk, Grime, CurryHouse and Twinkle; why Elvis Costello should be sainted. There was a seething bitterness in Julian's diatribe when airing his contempt at ridiculers of Gary Numan, and as the evening wore on, the boy learnt much and as the bubbly had conquered Julian, he bemoaned how no one ever remembered the bassists' names.

"Jules isn't normally like that," Capt Baker remarked finding a vacant room. "He must have thought you a real kindred spirit the way he was going on." Switching on the light, Capt Baker placed his hands on his hips where his suspenders were hooked.

"It's not much, but the sheets are clean and the bed will be warm. And the showers down the hall have hot water. So settle in and we'll sort you out in the morning."

Alistair chose the bottom bed of a bunk, tossed his bag carelessly against the wall and dropped his goggles on to the nightstand as he threw himself on to the mattress. With a couple of light bounces he kicked off his boots and sighed, looking glum.

"Penny for your thoughts," Capt Baker asked.

"I thought of pop," he said softly, guiltily.

Capt Baker flicked hair off his brow, and tried to think of the right thing to say.

"Tomorrow is another day," he offered. "A better day."

"Tell me why you were really going to meet my pop?" Alistair asked and Capt Baker looked at him awkwardly.

"It's late Alistair," Delilah interjected saving the man from an answer; as she pulled the sheets down, Alistair lazily kicked his boots under the bed before pulling off his jumper and trousers. Handing over his Def Leppard T-shirt, Delilah provided him with a clean shirt and he crawled in to bed and rolled on to his back making himself comfortable.

"Does no one give straight answers around here?" Alistair wondered.

"I'll be about," Delilah ignored, draping the dirty laundry over her forearm. "If you need anything, just call me."

Delilah tucked in the bed, and Alistair moaned.

"Delilah!"

"Oh I forgot," Delilah frowned, "you're a big boy now."

Alistair rolled over, turning his back to them, and Capt Baker turned off the light and they left him in peace. As the door closed, the light from the hall disappeared, and he stared at the wall. Thinking of Archie, Alistair knew their predicament was his all fault and he wept himself to sleep.